


Antlers

by Dogwood



Series: More Than Most [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Skyhold, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogwood/pseuds/Dogwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan's point of view after Solas makes his feelings known in Crestwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antlers

The days following the Inquisitor’s return from Crestwood were unremarkable for most residents of Skyhold. There was jugged hare for dinner one night, Maryden sang a new song in the tavern to a middling reception, and tense soldiers in their bunks spoke in hushed tones of the upcoming battle. 

Lavellan nodded where required and ordered her advisors and pored over maps. She wrote letters to nobles - some smoothing over tensions and some tersely worded. She spoke to new recruits and weathered veterans, sent messengers, inspected new horses and checked and double checked their supplies.

And she did it alone, for Solas had made it clear that there was to be no more ‘them’.

She hadn’t seen it coming. 

Indeed, when she found herself alone in the grotto she was sure it was some kind of mistake. One moment her fingers were laced with his, he was smiling - a rarity these days - and the next she was standing in the moonlight, a growing sense of cold mortification sinking into her bones.

The sadness found her shortly after, and stayed.

The days were bearable, at least in appearance, but at night she became a fox in a snare, straining and snapping at the love that kept her tethered. It was maddening and humiliating, having given herself over to something he could so coolly end, that he could shed like antler velvet in summer, like an old snake skin in the long grass.

In the privacy of her tower, as the wind whistled through the gaps in the ceiling boards, she sat on the top step and buried her face in her hands. She allowed herself the luxury of weeping, of cursing into her palms. She paced the floorboards with a betrayed heart and refrained from sleeping as long as she was able, lest she meet him in dreams.

Not that it would matter. Reaching him was like trying to skip a stone across a frozen pond.

In the morning, she would wash her face in the basin of snow melt that had been provided and don the version of herself that was more icon than person. She would descend the steps, from Dalish huntress to Inquisitor Lavellan, Herald and Hope.

She was so wretchedly in love. He would politely pass her the dried apples at breakfast.

Where once his eyes sparkled and lifted at the corners, they became steady and unreadable, like nothing had ever happened, like a week prior he hadn’t pulled her into the stairwell, his mouth on hers, hands warm under clothing, the two of them drunk on Antivan wine.

She wished all traces of his love gone, banished to the Fade after the scores of demons they’d pushed back, but whenever there was a break in her litany of tasks it was there, waiting for her in the smell of fresh paint, in the reports written in a perfect, practiced hand, in her face as she looked in the mirror every morning.

On the third morning she’d turned the mirror around.

Harden your heart, he’d said. The gall of him. To offer guidance on politics and strategy and magic and to turn around and inform her in the same tones how best to cope with his rejection. He had acknowledged her anger for her, and in doing so, had stolen it from her grasping hands. She could feel the rage building in her chest, full of fire and fury, but this was what he wanted, what he’d _suggested_ , and out of spite she swallowed it back and wrote to Scout Harding about the weather on the mountain pass. 

On a last minute excursion to the Storm Coast she resumed her part as Inquisitor, clarifying orders, keeping them on schedule, but when all was taken care of she retreated over the hill and stood, arms wrapped about her middle, staring and yet not staring at the nearby waves.

Cole had approached, as she knew he would, and when he sat himself on the mossy ground next to her she sat beside him and leaned against his shoulder, the brim of his oversized hat shielding them both from the mist of rain.

“You wish you would turn into a statue,” he said after a time. “Cold and quiet, no need to speak, free to crack where you please. The moss can creep and cling and claim you.”

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes were large as he peered at her, but not expectant.

“More than anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Solas' point of view is touched on in the next story, Four Nights. <3


End file.
